Repair
by olndina
Summary: Just a collection of stories centering around a Bucky/Clint/Steve relationship.
1. Carnage

There's so much about the 21st century that is different and _alien_, well, more alien than the Chitauri, that Steve feels an itch under his skin that dictates he escape and but good. Lucky for him and—according to Tony ("Seriously, Gramps, you're about two frown wrinkles away from curmudgeon")—the rest of the team, Clint had point-blank refused to leave his brownstone, and no amount of cajoling (Tony), manipulation (Nat), curry (Bruce), or puppy eyes (seriously, Thor) would ever change that. Of course, for Steve, that made dealing with his wildly inappropriate and likely unrequited love for Clint all the more difficult to shoulder.

So, this isn't the first time Steve's crashed on Clint's couch nor is it the fifth (hell, it's not even fifth time this month). Maybe Steve should be more worried that the more his crush intensifies the more times he scrunches himself up on Clint's too- short, too lumpy couch, but that's not what's concerning him right now. No, what's concerning him is this: "Here comes the air plane… No, no air plane? How about the choo-choo… chugga chugga chugga chugga whoo wh – aw, baby, no."

_Baby?_ Steve drops his bag and his shield by the front door and, walking on the balls of his feet as though traversing a land mine field, makes his way to the kitchen.

To clarify, Steve's already resigned himself to this hopeless crush thing he has on the archer. There's no way Steve—always just a 4F in 1A packaging—could ever be good enough for anyone (the only one who ever really saw him was Bucky, and, well, Bucky's gone). Steve had counted it a success that his stupid crush was just that, but he was wrong. When he rounds the corner to find Clinton Francis Barton, World's Greatest Marksmen, going toe-to-toe with a one-toothed, blue-eyed, pink-bowed, red-headed baby? Well, his hopeless crush warms into something new, and before Clint can even say, "'Sup, Cap," Steve says, "I love you."

Clint stops moving, and the baby takes advantage of his stillness to grab his hand and start banging it (with the spoon still full of food) on the table. Clint, spurred into action, gently grabs her wrist with his other hand and disengages her grip. The spoon is completely empty, which is to say both the baby and Clint are now covered in pureed carrots, so he leaves her to do with it as she will. Steve watches Clint watching the baby put the spoon in her mouth to chew. The silence that otherwise fills the room makes Steve's arm hairs rise, his fingers itch for something to do to break the tension. It's Clint who talks first.

"Steve."

And, oh, Clint's probably expecting a response. "Y-yes?"

"Did you just tell me you love me? While I'm covered in baby food?" Steve's only answer is the flush of embarrassment that suffuses his face. "Because, I'm pretty sure you could have picked a better time, like, say, tonight during the movie, after I've managed to take a shower, maybe done the whole yawn-and-stretch to put my arm around your shoulders so you can look at me with those baby blues, and I could kiss you? Yeah, that sounds much better."

"You're going to kiss me?" _Smooth, Rogers, real smooth._

"Not now I'm not. Carrots are flat nasty at the best of times, and pureed to death, nuked to lukewarm—and in my _hair_, thank you—is not conducive to sexy-sexy make-out times."

Steve swallows and tries to appear cool while he thinks of a witty rejoinder, but looking like he's with it is nearly impossible when he's wiping his _sweaty palms_ on his jeans. His voice is a squeak when he says, "Then, no."

"No, what?"

"No, I did not just tell you that I love you."

"Good." Clint produces another spoon from somewhere (Steve will laugh at him later when he sees that Clint has a whole arsenal of them in his shirt pocket) and starts feeding the baby again. For a minute or so, Steve worries that he's not going to know what to do with himself now that his big secret is out and there's a very real potential for "sexy-sexy make-out times" in his future, but then he realizes that Clint's feeding a _baby_.

"Uh, Clint?"

The baby feints left, and the spoon leaves behind a smear of orange on her cheek. Clint swears under his breath. "Yeah, Steve."

"You think you could introduce me to your friend here?"

"My frien – You mean Bonnie?"

"I think it's safe to say that, as the only two other people in this room are you and I, then, yeah, I mean Bonnie."

"Smart ass." Steve gasps and puts his hand over his heart, feigning indignation. "Save it, Rogers. You're not offended." He sticks the spoon back in the jar of food then gestures at Steve with the whole thing. "Steve, this is Bonnie-lass. Her mom lives below me, and has been known to cook a mean casserole for the odd super hero or two. Bonnie's daddy had an accident at work, so Bonnie's mom asked me to watch the princess while she takes care of him at the hospital. Bonnie, this old codger is Steve, and he has the worst timing in the entire world."

"Thanks, Barton." Clint doesn't answer, mind and body once again turned to the task of feeding Bonnie the Spoon Dodger. Steve snorts, and Bonnie turns her head to smile at him.

"What's wrong, Hawkeye, the – "

"Yeah, yeah, 'World's Greatest blah blah can't feed a baby her frickin' carrots, the Earth is doomed.' Hilarious, that's what you are, frickin' hilarious."

Steve rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything… Until Clint tries and fails again, this time decorating his own cheek with carrots. Steve pushes himself off the doorjamb. "Barton, you're just embarrassing yourself."

"Oh? And I suppose being a super soldier gives you hidden baby-feeding skills, huh?"

"Just move, asshole." Bowing out of the way, Clint moves so that Steve can take over. Steve doesn't immediately pick up a fresh spoon or the jar of food. Instead, he sits down and smiles at Bonnie. "Hi, princess, I'm Steve." She giggles and kicks her legs, her hands opening and closing. "Can you play peek-a-boo?"

"Steve, Cap, she's seven months old."

"Can it, Barton. Who's the expert here?"

"But, really, man, how – I'll be damned."

Steve would turn to smirk at the other man, but he's far too interested in making Bonnie laugh at him. He covers his eyes. "Where's Bonnie? Where's Bonnie?" Bonnie flaps her hands at Steve, occasionally gaining purchase on one of his thumbs or fingers. Steve always rewards her success by lowering his hands and exclaiming, "Oh! There she is!" He plays with her for a little longer, an uncharacteristically silent Clint watching them. After a few minutes pass and Bonnie's giggles have turned into full-blown belly laughs, Steve deems her ready. He wipes her down once more before he wrestles her out of her harness. He settles the baby on his hip, bracing her back against his forearm. Finally, he tucks the hand closer to his body under his armpit and gently grips the wrist of her other hand, leaving one of his hands free to feed her while still preventing her from grabbing at the spoon. He holds a spoonful of food almost to her mouth. She tries to tug her hands free to grab it, but when she can't, she leans her head forward as far as she can, lips parted, until all Steve has to do is move the utensil a fraction of an inch to feed her. He touches his nose to hers, grinning when she giggles.

It only takes a bit longer for Steve and Bonnie to work their way to the bottom of the jar of food. The only noises in the room are Bonnie's happy eating sounds and the click of the spoon on the lip of the jar. When he's finished, Steve drops the spoon back in the jar for a final time, then lifts Bonnie high above his head, careful not to press on her tummy lest she undo all of their hard work by throwing up all over him. "Good job, darling, not a bit spilled."

"You know, it's completely unfair."

Steve stands, readjusting so that Bonnie's back is pressed to his chest, and faces the archer. "What, that you can't hit anything but the broadside of a baby's cheek?"

"Oh, har har, hilariouser and hilariouser."

Steve smirks. "Tell you what, Clint, because I'm such a stand up guy, I've got a consolation prize for you."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"You, pal, get to change this little dame's diaper." Steve holds Bonnie out, leaving Clint no choice but to take her from him. Clint immediately snarls his nose up and keeps the baby at arm's length.

"Gee, golly, Cap, that's awfully nice of you."

"I aim to please."

Clint maneuvers Bonnie so that he can peer at Steve. "You do at that." There's nothing that Steve can say to that so he just smiles, wondering if he should put his hands in his pockets or on his hips or behind his back or, really, just anywhere, so long as he's not just standing there, hands still held out where he offered the baby to Clint. He's about to settle for crossing his arms over his chest when Clint, who goes from holding Bonne like she's radioactive to standing in Steve's space, baby now pressed between them, says, "Steve," and Steve finds that his hands have settled on Clint's deltoids.

"Yeah?"

Clint reaches a hand up to Steve's neck so that he can pull Steve closer. "I love you, too." Steve could tell Clint that a dirty diaper totally trumps pureed carrots, but he's suddenly too busy, what with Clint's lips pressed to his and all. And, before there's any scandal or accusations that they'd play tonsil hockey in front of a helpless seven month-old, it isn't a sexy, open-mouthed kiss, and it doesn't last long. What it is, though, is a perfect moment, one like he hasn't had since Bucky.

Steve draws back from Clint and is so pleased to see the same goofy grin staring back at him. He quite readily admits to himself that he could stand here and look into this man's eyes for the rest of the night, if not for his life. Naturally, Bonnie had other opinions.

"Ow!" Clint lets go of Steve's neck and grabs his own nose. "Woman, your claws are vicious! All right, all right! I'll change your diaper." He heads out of the kitchen, toward her diaper bag, and mumbles, "Jesus, am I bleeding? Steve! I'm bleeding!"

~~X~~

The rest of the evening with Bonnie and Clint is pretty much the best time Steve's had since coming out of the ice. Steve cannot honestly remember a time when he's laughed more, and that doesn't include watching Clint clean and dress his war wound with as much care as he would post-Avengers battle. Even now, the sight of Bonnie and Clint—who'd crawled on his hands and knees—playing tag still threatens to send Steve into fits of laughter that he has to stifle. Clint had propped up in his papasan about an hour ago, bottle warmed, and snuggled the baby close while she fed for the last time. They're both asleep now, Bonnie with her arms and legs tucked under her body, Clint with about a thousand pillows and blankets to support him and catch Bonnie, just in case. Clint's head is lolled to the side, and Steve can just make out a puddle of drool spreading over the sleeping man's shirt. Steve himself had been the one to answer Clint's Starkphone when it had vibrated with a call from Mrs. Agee. Mr. Agee was out of surgery, pins holding his foot together, and Mrs. Agee was on her way home. She is due any moment, and Steve is doing his best to lay out his sketches so that he can encapsulate this day forever. He's putting the finishing touches on a picture of Clint, doing a one-handed handstand, with Bonnie using his armpit hair to lever herself to her feet.

There's so much that has changed while Steve was in the ice, but with this day full of laughter, kisses, and I-love-yous, there's just enough that hasn't that makes Steve thankful that some things never will.

5


	2. Shower

Clint doesn't hear Steve entering the bathroom, disrobing from his uniform, or sliding into the shower (he's not upset by his lack of awareness, not when he's at the Tower and he's one floor above Bruce Banner). Clint figures he's pretty much gone, because the first he's actually aware of his lover's presence is when Steve presses himself into Clint's back. Yeah, Steve's blocking the stream of water, but it is so worth it when he whispers, "I love you. I'm here. I've got you." Steve doesn't ask him what's wrong, because he knows.

Since Loki, every mission comes with the risk that Clint will come home a little more broken. His ability to compartmentalize and do the job is in the same rubble as P.E.G.A.S.U.S., where Fury tried to bury the Tesseract, Loki, Clint, and Fury himself. Clint doesn't wish Fury had been successful—not anymore, not since Steve—but he sometimes wishes he could regain that ability to turn off that part of himself that can focus on the job and not on the people he fails to protect, the ones whose deaths he hastens.

Eventually, after Steve's hands and fingers have traced over Clint's scars, giving Clint something else to focus on, to leave the mission behind however briefly, his breathing settles and he can say, "Hey. When, uh, when'd you get back?"

"Three hours ago. I had to debrief."

"Yeah. Can't save the world without a debrief." The only sound for a minute is the water sluicing across Steve's back. Clint whispers, "I missed you."

Steve nips his shoulder. "Yeah?"

" 'Course. My back hasn't been properly cleaned in a month. Ow." Clint rubs his butt cheek. "What was that for?"

"Ass."

"Yep, that _was_ my ass; you smacked it."

"Sure did."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Is there a reason you smacked it?"

"Because."

"Because…"

"Just because. Now hand me that not-a-sponge thing. I'll clean your damn back." Clint hands the loofa and the body wash to Steve. He wasn't completely lying; he had missed having Steve in their shower, and Steve's hands on his back. The moan of pleasure that works its way from his core stills Steve's hands. "That good, huh?" The answer's hidden under the thunk Clint's forehead makes as it connects with the tile. Steve smooths the body wash over his back with one hand, the loofa following after. The moans and groans continue to tumble out of Clint's mouth. Clint can hear the arousal coloring Steve's voice. "Not for nothing, Clint, but the last time you made those noises for me, I had your cock in my mouth."

"Jesus, Steve, you know what talking like that does to me."

"You know, I don't think I do. Maybe you should tell me." Clint reaches behind himself, bats the loofa to the floor, and puts Steve's hand on his hardness. "Okay, now this seems familiar. Let me just, uh…" If there was an end to that sentence, Steve loses it as his hand strokes faster. Clint hisses a breath in as teeth on his ear set him to curse and praise Steve alternately. Clint allows his legs to turn to jelly, digging his fingers into Steve's forearm pressed across his chest. "That's it, babe, I got you, always got you. I love you, love you, only you." A slight thrust of his hips punctuates his last statement and Clint isn't entirely sure it was a voluntary movement on Steve's part, but, fuck, if Clint cares. He's in his guy's arms and he's _safe_. The hardness pressing into his backside is a reminder that out of all the shit things that have happened to him since the blue clouded his eyes, this moment with this man is one of the best things that has ever happened to him. Clint is precious to Steve, is Steve's to protect and hold dear. No longer a slow build-up, Clint's orgasm tightens through his gut and he comes with a broken sound.

When he's coherent again, he's slouched against the tiled wall, Steve sitting beside him, his dick covered in conditioner, both hands stroking his shaft. Clint's movements are sluggish as he makes a move to help finish Steve off, but Steve just flaps a hand at Clint and, yeah, okay it's probably better this way because Clint's fucking _wrecked_ right now. So, it's just fine with Clint, really, because Steve always looks so beautiful when he touches himself, as though he's surprised that he's allowed to feel like this in front of someone else, at his most unguarded. Clint's the only one alive who's ever seen this. Steve suddenly shifts, cock momentarily forgotten as he reaches beneath himself and produces the loofa, which he promptly chucks at Clint when he sees the smirk on his face. More comfortable now, Steve crooks up his legs and rests his head on the tiles. If his eyes were open, Clint knows, they would be blown wide. Steve's lips part and he foregoes his nipples in favor of fondling his balls. He's close now. If Clint had been allowed to take on a more active role than audience, this would be the moment he'd straddle Steve's thighs and join his hands with Steve's as his strokes become firmer. Instead, though, Clint only mirrors Steve as the other man catches his bottom lip with his teeth. After one last lungful of air, Steve's suddenly a taut bowstring as his orgasm tears through him, only loud because of its utter lack of sound. Finally, Steve's muscles go lax and he sprawls onto Clint, who grunts.

"Heavy."

Steve's words are a slur. "Shut up. You love it."

Clint's response is to wrap his arms around Steve and kiss the top of his head.

They sit like that for awhile, Clint holding Steve, the shower keeping them warm and pliant. He lets Steve fake sleep for a few more minutes before he speaks, so quietly that anyone but Steve wouldn't be able to hear him.

"They were just kids, Steve." He hadn't been moving, but Clint feels how still Steve suddenly becomes. "One of them stabbed Nat in the leg, damn near hit her artery, and I couldn't, could not let them kill her, let her be the one to…" He thinks of Nat's ledger, the red in it. Whatever post-coital bliss he had been feeling is long gone and he's there again, back in the place where he's a failure, and he knows Steve knows he's there, knows Steve wants to turn and be the one to hold instead, so Clint tightens his arms around the larger man. He can't get this out of his system if Steve looks at him, absolves him. "I didn't even think, just loosed enough arrows to keep them from hurting anyone else. Who the fuck uses kids? The youngest was, what, ten? I…" He swallows down the bile threatening to do what bile does best. "I don't know if I'd have done any differently if it had been Bonnie going for Nat. Would I have killed her? Shot her to save a woman who's killed more people than I have? To save my friend, my sister? Steve, what - " This time, he has no choice but to let Steve gather him in his arms. Steve won't try to convince him that he did what he had to do, or that he should just be grateful that he didn't have to choose between Natasha and Bonnie; platitudes do little to splint together broken soldiers who still have to wake in the morning to fight the good fight (even if the fight's always bad). Clint cries—_can_ cry now—and lets Steve be the one to turn the water off, to dry them, and move them to the bedroom. Clint feels so fucking relieved and in awe of this man that his chest tightens when looks up from where Steve's turning down the bed. The smile he sends Clint is the smile Clint will spend the rest of his days working for.

Tomorrow, they'll fuck as soon as they're both awake. Then, they'll join the team for breakfast, at which time Clint will squeeze Natasha's shoulder and kiss her on the cheek. She'll slug him in the thigh and give him that small smile, the only one that's genuine. After they eat, Steve will call Bonnie's mom so that Bonnie can spend the day with her two favorite uncles. It won't be until after they've spent the day at the park with her that Steve will tell Clint that the kids were already dead, their bodies just animated corpses. The archer will not be comforted by this fact, will still punish himself on the range in the evening, will hold his draw until his arms shake. Steve will have to order him to bed, and they will argue about Clint's disregard for his own well-being. But that's all tomorrow. Tonight, they dim the lights, crawl under the blankets, and cling to one another, two broken soldiers desperate to stay whole.


	3. Arrow

He's already been Bucky again for two months, and, frankly, he'd thought this conversation would have happened with his standing on the business end of a drawn arrow. He doesn't immediately greet his visitor, though. Instead, Bucky Barnes, lately the Winter Soldier, stirs cream into his coffee, taps his spoon on the mug's edge, and takes the first and second decadent sips of the day before finally turning around to face Clint Barton. "You know, pal, there's a lot I miss from the '40s: dames in skirts and nylons, cigarettes that don't give you cancer, dance halls so packed you can feel the band thump your heart in time to the music. But, dear god, that coffeemaker almost makes the torture and brainwashing worth it."

"We're joking about seventy years of terror and bloodshed now?"

"I guess not." Bucky brings his mug to his lips again, and if he takes a longer sip than necessary, well, he's always been an asshole. And, true to form, he keeps drawing the silence out, even after he sets the cup on the counter behind him. Eventually, though, after he's taken in Barton's blank face and tense shoulders, he lets out a breath and crosses his arms, slouching in on himself. "This where you tell me to fuck off from your man or you'll break my kneecaps, pal? Because…"

"No."

"…not here to… Wait." Bucky takes a step forward, his arms dropping to his sides. "No?"

"No. I'm not," Clint squeezes his eyes shut and wipes his hand across his mouth. "I'm not, I'm, uh, Steve, he's not… I can't just…"

"Oh, you're giving up on him." Bucky sees Clint clinch his jaw, but the other man doesn't say anything. "Have you lost your damn mind?" Barton stays quiet, but the look of absolute hopelessness is all the answer Bucky needs. He fixes Barton with a look. "You don't give up on Steve Rogers, okay? You just fucking don't, because the minute you do, that's all the chance you'll get because for some goddamned reason, out of everyone he's met since the ice, he chose _you_ to be his partner."

"I'm not you."

"And thank Christ for that. I'm no good for Steve. I never was, okay? Even back when he was about 95lbs soaking wet, I was never good enough for him. But, god, when Steve Rogers comes to you and hands you everything you've been missing in your damn life, you take it, pal, so, god forgive me, I held onto him for seventy goddamned years and he's the reason that _I__'__m_ out of the ice too."

"You still love him."

"Damn right I do."

"He still loves you."

Bucky glances at the door to the living room before fixing Barton with a look that has caused more than one hardened killer to shit himself. He stalks across the kitchen to the breakfast nook and stands in front of Barton. With a snarl, he jerks his Henley over his head. Barton doesn't move once, not even when Bucky shoves the red star in his line of sight. "Do you know why I won't let Stark give me a new arm? Do you know why I keep this fucking star there? Do you know why I won't let Banner devise a new integration system between the arm and my brain?" Bucky's body shakes; the rotors in his arm whir. "Do you?" Barton finally meets his gaze, but doesn't otherwise respond. "It's so I'll never forget. This is a symbol of my sins, the people I've killed, the lives I've ruined. It fucking hurts all the time, but I live with that pain, not because I deserve to be punished, not to atone for what HYDRA and the Soviets made me do. I keep it because If I don't have that pain, if I for one minute forget that I'm not man enough for Steve Rogers, then I'm going to let myself have hope that I can be the man I once was, can be the Bucky I once was and maybe, just maybe, I'll be worthy of Steve's love. But I'm not." He's been Bucky Barnes again for two months, all mouth and attitude, but this right here, this confession, breaks him. There are tears wetting his cheeks. "I didn't fight hard enough to come home. They took my name, took my arm, but I gave them Steve. If I could have held onto him longer, kept him in all the places of my brain that they used to program the Winter Soldier, then maybe I really could have been worthy of him. But, this arm, this star, reminds me that I didn't fight hard enough for Steve. There's something wrong with me if I'm able to be unmade, rewritten." Bucky's strength fails him and he sags. Barton helps him find the other chair. Barton walks across the room and retrieves Bucky's forgotten cup of coffee. After he's set the cup on the table in front of Bucky, he hands Bucky's shirt to him. The archer must have timed it to coincide with when Bucky's pulling his shirt back of his head, but Bucky still catches Barton's muttered words.

"God, I thought I was fucked up."

Bucky's head emerges from the neck of his shirt and he's frozen for a moment, halfway back to being fully dressed again, incredulity clear on his face, and he fucking loses it. Laughter shakes his body as he gives into mirth for the first time in what feels like a lifetime. He chortles through his rejoinder. "So, we're joking about my crippling low self esteem and debilitating PTSD now?"

"Looks like." The grin that lights Barton's face is fleeing, but it's while he looks younger than his thirty-five years that Bucky thinks, even more fleetingly, that if things were different, he could like Barton, could be his friend. The happiness doesn't last long, and Barton turns his head to stare at something to his right. It's then that Bucky sees the black portfolio on the end of the table.

It's a stupid question, he knows, but he still asks, "Those Steve's?"  
For answer, the other man reaches for the folio, his hands a gentle caress across the top. "Does Steve know you…" Barton darts a look at Bucky. "Look, I don't think you should, _I_ should – "

"When he woke up, Fury sent him to SHIELD's psych department and, well, to say things went pretty well FUBAR with Doc Jenkins and his merry mentalists would be like saying Tasha is scary. I think the longest one lasted five days." He snorts, but Bucky doesn't say anything. "Anyway, the whole head-shrinking thing was pretty much a bust, but the one thing that Steve kept doing was his art therapy." He slides them to Bucky. Bucky moves his hands away from the table, as though burned.

"Barton, if Steve wanted me to see these, he'd –"

"Look, I get it, okay? Betrayal of trust, intensely personal, but goddammit, Barnes, just look at them, okay? Check the dates. You'll figure it out."

"Barton, I – "

"Barnes, just…" He slams his fist on the table, but because he's Bucky and not the Winter Soldier, Bucky doesn't react except to feel sympathy at the other man's obvious pain. Before he starts talking again, Barton takes a deep breath. "You said you gave Steve to the Red Room, to HYDRA, but you also said that Steve's the one thing that brought you back. You didn't give up on him, and he never gave up on you." When Bucky still doesn't make a move to open the portfolio, Barton tears open the cover and pulls the top most one out, shoving it into Bucky's hands.

It's beautiful, and Bucky remembers that day, remembers, _"I had him on the ropes," _and, _"You__'__re taking all the stupid with you."_ More importantly, though, he remembers what happens after they leave that alley behind the movie theatre, remembers how he had come home from the Stark Expo and the disastrous double date and found Steve packing for Fort LeHigh. He remembers holding Steve for the first time, making love to him. It's a perfect moment, a perfect memory, and Bucky hangs onto it when the memories and nightmares want to suck him down into a a black vortex. Bucky traces the lines of Steve's face, so much rougher and less defined than Bucky's own, because of course Steve always spends more time on Bucky's features than his own. He chuckles, then continues following the lines as they play across the page, until he studies the left hand of the Bucky Barnes in the sketch. It's barely there, but there nonetheless: a state-of-the-art metal hand. He flips the sketch over and finds the stylized "SGR," the date right underneath it: "April 19, 2012?" he looks at Barton. "But, that's right after he - "

"That's the first picture of you he drew after waking up. He's drawn dozens, hundreds since then, and it never bothered me." Barton stands up and walks to the glass door that leads out to the balcony. "Even when you woke up and were, you know, you again, it didn't bother me, because it was always my bed he crawled into these days. I knew he loved you, hell probably loved you from the moment he saw you and you were trying to kill him because that's just Steve, but I know he also loves me. And, you know, it's not like Steve was stepping out on me, because the man can't tell a lie to save his life, even though you were right there. Then, last night, I came home from the op a day early and I walk into our living room and Steve's sitting in the middle of the floor, all of your sketches all around him, and he's got one of them in his hands, pencil working furiously. He changed them, changed them all so that they're the Bucky of now." Barton lifts his hands up to his eyes and wipes at them. "He was crying, man, and before I could sit down, hold him, he'd apologized and run out of the room, out of the apartment. He's still not back." More than the tears that may or may not be on Barton's cheeks, the catch in Barton's voice tells Bucky that the other man is just barely hanging on, and it's that catch that makes Bucky want to speak up, but he doesn't because he promised. Barton turns back around, fixes Bucky with a look. "Find him, Barnes, and bring him ho - to the Tower. I'll have my stuff out by tonight, so you won't have to worry about that, but just find him."

Bucky nods his head, but doesn't otherwise acknowledge Barton as the other man takes his leave. He pushes himself away from the table, and gathers up all of the sketches. In the living room, he shoves all the furniture to the perimeter of the room so that he can arrange each sketch chronologically, not according to the dates Steve's written on their backs, but how the events actually unfolded. When he hears the steps coming from his guest bedroom, Bucky is studying a sketch of the lab where Steve found him behind enemy lines. From the way his eyes are rolled up in his head and his mouth is slightly opened, he imagines he can hear himself reciting name, rank, and serial number over and over in an effort to withstand the torture. "That's a hell of a memory to capture on paper, Steve."

"I dreamed about it for so long, Bucky, I had to draw it. Drawing helps." Steve's standing by the couch, now, and without even looking at him, Bucky knows that he's drawing in on himself, trying to make himself smaller.

"Why didn't you tell me you ducked out on Clint last night? And since when do you run from anything?"

"Aw, Buck, I wasn't running from anything. I just needed a little safety, and you've always made me safe." Steve's all the way in the living room now. "'Sides, you coulda told him I was here."

"Yeah, I suppose I could have, but I figured you musta had a reason and it'd be a damn good one at that. I'm just waiting for you to get your thumb outta your ass so you can tell me what the hell is going on."

"I love you."

Bucky puts the sketch down and runs his hands through his hair, resisting the urge to grab a hank and pull. "I know, you dumb bastard, and that kid loves you."

"Yes, he does, and so do you." Bucky doesn't deny Steve's words, and, when their eyes meet, the choking sound that Steve sobs out reminds Bucky too much of Brooklyn winter nights with a wheezing Steve for whom Bucky would have given anything to be able to breathe for him, to fight for his breath the same way he fights the bullies bloody when Steve's too little to finish his own battles. Steve must see all of this in Bucky's eyes, because he's across the room and pinning Bucky to the floor, on top of the sketches, and kissing him as though he will never get a chance to kiss him again. Because he's been Bucky again for two months, Bucky surrenders to the kisses the same way he did when they were twenty-four and Bucky was shipping out to London, Steve to some government experiment. He still doesn't deserve this too good man, maybe even deserves him less now than he did the first time Steve chose him, but there is no way Bucky's going to give this chance up.

Steve breaks from the kiss and he is crying. This realization follows on the footsteps of the knowledge that Bucky himself is also crying. Steve feels the same to Bucky as he did the night before they ziplined onto a moving train. It sounds the same, Steve saying his name, as it did that night too. "Bucky, I'm, I mean, I can't not - " Steve's breath hitches and reminds Bucky of all the times he'd come home to find Steve home nursing a busted lip or nose, frustration and anger still roiling off of him in tangible waves. Steve lets go of Bucky and scrambles away from him, arousal obvious in the loose sleep pants he's wearing. Bucky drops his hands into his lap to ease his own arousal even if he does feel as though he'll wink out of existence if he doesn't put his lips back on Steve's, his hands on Steve's body, right this instance.

"I'm sorry, Steve." The other man's laugh is hysterical.

"What the hell are you sorry for? I attacked you."

Bucky tightens his right hand around his left wrist, letting his fingernails catch on the plating. "I didn't die, Steve. I lived. I came back. I'm Bucky again. You were happy with Clint. Now, it's all fucked. And that's on me." He starts to drop his graze, but Steve's hand, though gentle, is quick as it cups Bucky's jaw. The fresh tears in Steve's eyes startles another gasp out of Bucky, and Bucky wants nothing more than to kiss them away. "Steve -"

"Shut up one goddamn minute and tell me you aren't apologizing for being alive and being sane." Bucky stays quiet. "Well?" He might not be able to help the wince as Steve's grip tightens minutely, but that doesn't mean he can't force out a smirk as well.

"You told me to shut up. Just following orders, Captain."

The groan of exasperation is far more welcome than the catch in Steve's voice. Broken as he is (contrary to whatever the hell Steve says) Bucky can't stop, can't stop the Steve's lips has on his own.

Both men wrap themselves in the other's arms, and Bucky is melting, melting into Steve, warm for the first time since the asset became Bucky. Steve wedges a thigh between Bucky's legs, and Bucky finds himself bearing down on that muscle, dragging himself up the other man's leg, rutting against the friction of his pants and the heat fro Steve's leg. Bucky drops his hand down across Steve's pectorals, his abdomen, and twitches the shirt up enough to touch skin. Steve gasps and pulls back suddenly and Bucky realizes that he's brushed his metal hand, always just below room temperature, across Steve's hot skin. He's about to apologize, to put his hand back on clothing, but Steve grabs the metal fingers and shoves Bucky's hand down his pants. The sensors on the digits send all sorts of important information through Bucky's nerves, but the one thing that Bucky focuses on is the that Steve's girth and fullness are just as he remembered. Bucky fists Steve's cock and the younger man bucks his hips once, twice, before Steve bites his lip and moans through his orgasm, Bucky rutting a handful more times in order to follow after him.

Bucky loosens his grip, but doesn't let go of Steve, nor does he move his face away from where he's resting his forehead on Steve's both of them breathing heavily through their open mouths. Bucky can feel the sketches sticking to his back, knows that some of them are ruined now that he's sweated on them. He doesn't feel a bit bad about it though, not that.

Steve's shoulders start shaking, and for a moment, Bucky thinks he's crying, but then Steve pushes himself off of Bucky and opens his mouth, absolutely guffawing and Bucky can't stop himself from giving into the mirth even if he wanted to. Steve's eyes go wide at Bucky's first chortle and when their gazes meet, Bucky's surprised at how tickled Steve really is.

"Oh, hell, do you remember that..." Bucky stops laughing, because, yeah, he knows exactly what Steve's about to say, about to remind him of the time they'd almost been caught by Howard Stark because Steve just _had_ to ride Bucky on top of the maps table after a briefing. "And, and, remember Dernier's face when he saw that cut on your back from the model?"

Bucky slugs Steve in the arm, hard, causing Steve to laugh all the harder. "Button it, pal, I still have that damn scar."

"Oh, I know, Clint was there when you were in medical, and..."

Bucky feels his face go blank, smile still in place, but because Steve's known him since he was five and therefore knows Buckys' face like he knows his own so Bucky's not sure why he tried to hide the fact that he's upset and guilty about what he's just done to Steve, to Barton, because Steve's eyes have that look that tells Bucky he's breaking Steve's heart again. It lasts for maybe half a second before Steve's the one who slugs Bucky's shoulder.

"Ow!" It doesn't hurt, not really, but he needs the levity. "What the hell, Rogers?"

"That was for distracting me, you lug."

"Distracting _you_, pal?" Bucky calls after Steve, who's running to the guest bedroom again. "I seem to recall you being the one to attack me with your tongue in my throat and - "

Steve plops, honest to god plops, down and thrusts a folded up piece of paper into Bucky's hands. Bucky turns the paper over in his hands, sees Steve's initials and the date. It's from this month. "Clint hasn't seen this one yet. It's a new one, finished it last week. I was looking at it when he came home. Didn't even realize it was in my hands until I was knocking on your door last night." Steve's never been shy with his art, not where Bucky is concerned, used to say that art was the only place where he was big enough to match his mouth. If Steve thought a sketch was good enough to show somebody, then it was goddamn perfect and should be hanging in a museum. It's understandable, then, that Bucky's fingers are trembling while he unfolds the paper.

It's important to note that Bucky's been around the block a time or two, so he knows that there's more than one way to skin a cat just the same as there's more than one way to find love. Steve, for all he's traveled the world and fucked Bucky every chance they got in every language they learned, though, is the last person in the world Bucky ever would have expected to propose a menage a trois, and even then, it's still almost _tame_ the way it's depicted on the page.

Bucky is holding himself up by the headboard while his legs are wrapped around Barton's waist. Bucky can see that he's close, what with Barton's hand obviously working his cock, and with his bottom lip caught in his teeth (Steve always said that watching Bucky bite that goddamn lip was like lighting fireworks, it got him so hot, so ready to explode), and Bucky cannot deny the beautiful play of muscles in Barton's arms and legs as he supports Bucky. Steve, though not an active participant in the love-making (it's too tender, the way Bucky and Barton are looking at each other, to be anything but love-making), is exquisite. He's lounging on his side, head propped in one hand, sheet covering him from the waist down. There's a tell-tale outline beneath the sheets that for all that he's hands-off, he's still very much enjoying the display in front of him.

It's exquisite, the best sketch Bucky's seen, but not because of two people on the bed in front of Steve. It's a heartache deep beauty of a sketch because of the happiness Steve has afforded his own face. Bucky has never seen Steve look that happy, either rendered in graphite and parchment, or in real life.

"I-I know-it's probably dumb, right-but, I don't think I could choose if you asked me to."

"Jesus, Stevie." Bucky drops the sketch and cups Steve's neck, forcing the other man to meet his gaze. "I love you, and, hell, I've been sharing Captain America with the world for a long time now, pal. If keeping you means I need to share Steve Rogers with a mouthy carnie, then, I'll take it, take all you'll give me."

"Really?" Bucky kisses Steve, then, and lets that be his answer before he sends Steve off to stop Barton from clearing out of their apartment and going into deep cover for twenty months (it's what Bucky'd have done).

The living room floor is clean, all sketches tucked back into the portfolio, except for one. Bucky can't stop himself from running his fingers over it, maybe smudging the pencil a little bit where he and Barton are joined, but Steve's face he leaves alone. Bucky's always been a little bit broken, but so too has Barton. This little arrangement of theirs, whatever it is, won't fix them, not really, but maybe one day, life will imitate the art Steve's captured on page and they'll all three be that comfortable with one another, that in love with one another. Keeping Steve though, even if it's only for part of the time, is enough for now.


	4. Interlude

Bucky stood in the doorway to their apartment. He stared at the manila folder on their kitchen table (it was really their only table). He didn't have to open it to know that it contained Steve's death warrant. Helplessness overwhelmed him and before he could stop it, a sob escaped from Bucky, drawing Steve's attention where he'd been digging through their tiny fridge. "Buck? When did you get back? What are - "

"You dumb son of a bitch." Bucky took the last step to the table and slammed his fist onto the top of the folder. The pain that flared from the contact was welcomed.

"Jesus, Buck, why'd - " Steve stood behind him, a hand reaching out to take Bucky's fist so he could exam the damage. Bucky let him, because what else could he do? "Damn, you're bleeding." Bucky looked down where Steve scrutinized the split knuckles as he steered Bucky to sit on one of the hard cots, already stripped of its bedclothes. Bucky could only let him, too, the pain radiating from his hand telling him that he was awake, that he was living his own worst nightmare. Steve must have asked him something, because the look on his face was expectant.

"You don't make it easy, do you, Stevie?" he repeated. "I don't-"

"Shut up, Rogers. If you're gonna go and get yourself shot by the goddamn Nazis or the Japs, you're gonna listen to what I have to say." And Steve, the mouthiest mouth in all of Brooklyn, did. "Look here, punk, the only reason, the only fucking reason I enlisted is because it was my way of fighting when you couldn't. 'What would Steve Rogers do?' I asked myself, and you know what that answer is? It's fight for those who can't. I know I ain't coming back, but that was okay because you'd still be here, scrappin' in the back alleys, drawing pictures, and making a difference." Bucky moved quickly, grabbing Steve by the shirt before he talked himself out of it. He rested their foreheads together. "I coulda gone without telling you, without you knowing, and that'd been okay."

"Know what, Buck?" Some time must have passed then, because Steve's whispered question startled Bucky to the point where he jumped a little and he started to laugh at that, but his mirth turned into sadness, and tears started falling down his face.

"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one, but you really are a dumb son of a bitch." If Steve was surprised when Bucky surged to his feet-hands fisted in his shirt to pull him up as well-he didn't show it. For a minute, neither of them said anything, just stared at one another, both breathing quickly. Bucky's hand had started to throb, but he ignored it. The moment, that moment with Steve, was what was important. He breathed out one last time, Steve's name a benediction. Bucky's eyes stayed open, and his grip on Steve's shirt stayed tight, but Bucky's press of lips on Steve's was gentle. That was when Steve's eyes widened in surprise, but rather than clock Bucky on the nose (like Bucky figured he'd do), his fingers scrabbled for the lapels of Bucky's uniform. It wasn't until Steve's eyes closed and his mouth opened, allowing Bucky his first taste of Steve's mouth, that Bucky's eyes closed and he could move his hands and arms to wrap around the smaller man, bring him closer. Bucky could feel his own cock press into his uniform trousers. He thrust his hips forward, not really meaning to, but Steve's answering groan is enough to encourage Bucky to move his hands again, this time to pick Steve up by his thighs so that he can wrap his legs around Bucky's waist.

Maybe Steve sensed the overwhelming want that caused Bucky to pick him up like that, because the indignant squawk of protest never came. No, instead, Steve groaned into Bucky's mouth and Bucky squeezed Steve's backside just a little bit harder before carefully laying Steve out on his cot, still made up for Steve's last night in the apartment. Bucky pushed that thought to the furthest corners of his mind and started fumbling with his uniform coat. "Goddammit."

"Buck?"

"Don't just lie there, pal, get naked." Steve didn't respond, nor did he move. For a horrifying moment, Bucky thought for sure that he'd pushed too far and had broken whatever this was between them. His hands stilled and he risked a look at Steve's face. "Steve, I'm sorry. We don't - "

"Race you."

"What?" The smirk on Steve's face was enough to goad Bucky into action. "Punk." Steve's fingers flew to the throat of his shirt and started undoing the buttons. Bucky's own fingers were already struggling before Steve's challenge (seriously, undressing in the heat of the moment should have been the most basic of skills Bucky learned in basic training, but now, watching bony, nimble-fingered Steve bite his lip as he met Bucky's wide-eyed, wide-mouthed look was enough to stall Bucky out completely. HIs hands fell to his sides as Steve shrugged out of his shirt before pulling his undershirt off. He lay flat on his cot now, bare-chested and flushed, toeing his shoes and socks off. He started to fiddle with his fly, but Bucky grabbed his foot, stopping him. The sight of a barefoot, shirtless Steve in naught but his trousers with the suspenders still attached was an image Bucky wanted to take with him through the war.

He drank Steve in, starting from the soles of his feet, to the pressed crease of his pants, the tenting in the crotch, the dark blonde strip of hair just below his navel, the dusky pink of his nipples, and finally Steve's face, eyes blown wide with arousal. Bucky squeezed his foot one more time before letting go, allowing Steve to undo his fly and shimmy out of his trousers and shorts in one go. It wasn't until Steve was back to reclining on his elbows that Bucky got his first look at Steve's cock. Sure, they'd seen each other's Johnson before, but not like that, stiff, red, and leaking. Bucky stood like that for a while, unaware, really, of anything else at all, until Steve quietly broke the silence. "Bucky."

"Yeah, pal?"

"You lost." Truthfully, Bucky had completely forgotten about their race. He let his gaze travel the length of Steve's body again.

"No, pal, I'm pretty sure I won." He didn't let Steve answer, or, as was more likely the case, become embarrassed. Instead, he leaned down to kiss Steve, to let Steve help him remove all the pieces of his uniform until Bucky too was naked. Bucky nestled himself between Steve's legs and let their cocks slide against one another while he and Steve continued to plunder each one's mouth. They both were slick with sweat, Bucky's nose filled with the scent of Steve's arousal. Steve, whether by accident or design, raked his nails down Bucky's back. Bucky broke their kiss with a sharp exhalation of breath.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Bucky, I didn't mean to - " "You didn't." He rutted into Steve again, his Steve. "Yeah?" "Yeah, now shut-up, Rogers."

"Shutting ' hmph." That time when Bucky sealed his mouth over the other man's mouth, Steve dug little arches in his still stinging back, Bucky's only response was to dot more pulses of fluid on Steve's skin.

Bucky would have gladly stayed between Steve's legs and kissed the daylights out of him if it weren't for the fact that actual daylight and-with it-Bucky's train ticket meant that their time was limited. Reluctantly, he broke their kiss again and waited until Steve's blown eyes focused on him. "Steve."

"What?" "Do you trust - " "Don't be an idiot. Of course I do." Bucky's mouth dried considerably. "Can I, I mean, would it be - "

Steve's hand closed over Bucky's mouth, effectively saving Bucky from himself, while his other hand reached beneath his pillow to produce a tub of Vaseline. Bucky's eyes opened further, but with Steve's hand still covering his mouth, he couldn't say anything. "You'll need this. And, I think it would be, you know, uh, better? If you put your mouth on me." Steve's eyes looked somewhere over Bucky's left shoulder, and Bucky couldn't have that. He licked Steve's hand. "Ew, gross. Jerk."

"Let me get this straight, pal. You've just handed me a tub of slick so I can stick my fingers and then my dick in your ass, not to mention demanded, yes, demanded, that I suck your Johnson at the same time, and you're grossed out because I licked your goddamn hand?"

"Shut up and suck me, Buck." That brought Bucky up short, caught in the midst of taking the lid off the tub.

"Steve, if we had the time, I'd make you tell me how the hell you know about this shit."

"How about you just be grateful I do so that we can get on with this? We can talk about this later." And, maybe Bucky just imagined it, but it seemed that Steve was thinking the same thing Bucky was. There would be no later.

Instead of saying any of that, though, Bucky smirked and brought a dollop of the Vaseline up. "Yeah, okay. Pushy punk." Taking Steve's cock into his mouth, nuzzling his nose into the curls of hair there, was easily the best idea Bucky ever had. It was as though an ache he didn't know he had suddenly eased. He had to sit there, Steve's cock in his mouth, and just exist in that moment. Then, Steve's thighs squeezed together and Bucky resumed sucking Steve off, all the while circling Steve entrance, making Steve familiar with the idea of something being down there, in there. Steve, after his initial thrust of his hips when Bucky had started running the flat of his tongue on the underside of his dick, had dug his heels into the cot and held himself as still as possible. Bucky wanted to press his hand into his cock, keep himself from the overwhelming urge to thrust his cock into the mattress, wanted that friction, but he restrained his urge.

Bucky was losing himself in the rhythm of the suck and bob and the circle and tease when Steve grabbed the curls of his hair and tugged Bucky's head up. "St-stop - "

"Jesus!" Bucky pulled his hand away from Steve as quickly as he could. "I didn't mean to hurt you!"

"Jeeze, Buck, calm down. I'm not gonna break. I was trying to tell you to stop teasin' and get a move on."

"You're not hurt?" Steve rolled his eyes and knocked one of his knees into Bucky's side.

"Bucky, I had four of my own goddamn fingers in my ass this morning." Bucky's brain must have broken because there was no way that Steve, little innocent Steve, was saying what Bucky what he thought he was saying. No surprise when Steve rolled his eyes after Bucky said all that out loud. "Buck, does that look like a new jar to you?" Bucky shook his head. "Okay, soldier, pull it together." Bucky still just looked at him. "God, does the army know you're this thick?" Steve spread his legs wider, displaying his hole. "I've been wantin' this for a long time. Trust me when I tell you that I've been ready for you for a while now, years, even. So, go ahead, and stick 'em in me."

After that, directions such as, "Yeah, crook your fingers and twist just a little - oh, god," were more a revelation than Bucky had bargained for, but then Bucky slid inside of him and came home for the first time in his life.

He held himself still as he kissed Steve again, and, miraculously, the mouthy bastard kept quiet, just kissed Bucky back until Bucky was the one who was impatient to move things along. The older man went slow at first, and not because he thought Steve couldn't take it, but because committing the look on Steve's face, the sound of his name from Steve's mouth, the weight on his shoulders from Steve's legs, and the slick warm slide on his cock from Steve's ass was far more important to Bucky than chasing his own release.

"Bucky," Steve bit his lip before continuing, "Jesus, you feel so, so good. I knew you would. God, known since I was fifteen and, oh, god, yes, right there."

"Steve, that mouth!" "What about my mouth?"

"It's just, just..."

"What, Buck? What? Tell me about my mouth. Come on. I wanna hear what my mouth does to you."

"Fuck, Steve!"

"Hmmm... Does my mouth get you hot under the collar? Oh, you're not wearing a collar right now, so that can't be true. Do you think about my mouth on your Johnson, sucking you down, sucking you omph - "

"Steve, if you don't shut up right now, I ain't gonna last." Steve mumbled something, but Bucky just shook his head, left his hand clasped over Steve's mouth, and rolled his hips into Steve. Steve's moans were lost to Bucky's hand and Bucky continued to fuck into him slowly. It wasn't the most comfortable of positions, but Bucky was still afforded the exquisite sight of Steve's flush growing up his neck and into his face as Bucky moved the both of them.

It was the only kind of heaven Bucky felt he'd get, even if he didn't deserve any of this, but as much as Bucky wanted to make their night last, he felt his orgasm build. His head lolled forward. "So good, Steve, I ain't gonna last much longer." Steve's legs tightened and he mumbled again. Bucky moved his hand.

"Jerk."

"You got two hands; you coulda moved mine whenever you wanted."

"It's the principle. Now. Touch my cock. I wanna come when - Seriously, Bucky?" Bucky couldn't find it in himself to be embarrassed, and, well, his muscles were too tensed, his orgasm too powerful for him to do much more than keep his heart beating. When he finally relaxed, Steve, completely unimpressed, was looking at him, eyebrow arched. Bucky huffed and pulled out of Steve, letting the other man's legs down.

"Hey, punk, I told you to keep your filthy mouth shut. It's not my fault you ain't got a lick of sense to listen to reason."

"Uh-huh. Well, is reason going to help a fella out, or are you just going to lie there and look stupid?"

"Mouthy." Bucky kissed Steve and put his hand on Steve's dick. Steve's breath immediately hitched, his heart beat a quick thrum against his chest as Bucky worked him to completion. It wasn't more than a half dozen strokes before Steve bit down on Bucky's lip and arched his back, shooting his load to smear between their bellies.

Staring into Steve Rogers's eyes, Bucky felt like the luckiest son of a bitch in the world because he got to have this moment with Steve. And, if Bucky died tomorrow, he'd go out with a bloody lip from Steve's teeth and a brand on his heart from Steve's being. And, who knew? Maybe they'd both make it through the war, make it back to Brooklyn together. Or, and this was what buoyed Bucky on the long plane ride across the pond, maybe Steve'd wash out of basic, a little worse for the wear, sure, but at least he'd tried, and maybe he'd be satisfied with that.

It wasn't until Bucky was stowing his footlocker at his new barracks that he realized he hadn't told Steve he loved him.


End file.
